


Come, Steal My Heart, My Soul, My Body

by petyrbaealish



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Godswood, Hades/Persephone parallels, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 13:45:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12343884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petyrbaealish/pseuds/petyrbaealish
Summary: Based on a Halloween inspired prompt from my 400 Follower Celebration on tumblr.Prompt by @escapist-capsule: "Corpse Bride inspired (sort of)  Sansa is about to marry Joffrey but she is nervous about her vows, goes to woods to practice but when she says them loud and puts the ring on a branch Petyr shows up telling her she vowed to love the lord of underworld. She probably freaks out at first but he shows her that Joffrey is basically human living demon and she chooses Petyr over him. ?"





	Come, Steal My Heart, My Soul, My Body

It was cold, the chill slipping beneath her clothes and into her bones, soothing her stuttering heart in its icy embrace. The moon hung low in the sky, its light barely visible through the trees that ran thick in the woods just outside of Winterfell. Still, Sansa could see well enough, her eyes quickly adjusting to the darkness that many found oppressive, but felt rather freeing to her. The dark held no terrors that the light did not. There were more ways to cloak a crime than the absence of light.

She was to be wed tomorrow, to a boy she barely knew. He was from a good family, his father close with her own, and quite handsome besides. They were to be married in the Sept, joined for all eternity in front of the Seven, for though her family had kept to both the old gods and the new, her husband to be and his family had long ago parted from the old ways. Sansa had always been drawn to the Sept rather than to the godswood, more like her lady mother than like her father, but tonight she sought solace from the old gods, her prayers unanswered by the Seven.

Until tonight, she’d been thrilled with the prospect of marrying Joffrey Baratheon. Never had she imagined that her life would truly be one to record in the songs, though she had hoped and prayed it might be. He looked every bit the part of her knight in shining armour. But as the day waned, her nerves slowly got the better of her. And she remembered the moments that had collected rust on that perfect vision, the hints of something horrible lurking beneath Joffrey’s handsome exterior. She wondered if perhaps the life that awaited her might not be a song, after all.

Afraid to voice her concerns to her family, Sansa had gone to the Sept, craving reassurance. Finding none, she turned to the only source of comfort left to her, the family godswood, and the heart tree that connected the living with the old gods.

As she approached the weirwood, its pale bark almost blindingly white against the black of night, the wind picked up, rustling the tree’s blood red leaves. Sansa shivered and pulled her cloak tighter around her body, the reaction born not only from the cold but from the mysteries that always clung to these woods. The old gods were listening. She could feel it.

Drawing close enough to touch the roughened bark, Sansa reached out a hand to the weirwood’s trunk, taking in a deep breath to steady her nerves. Closing her eyes, she prayed, asking for whatever assistance the gods might give her. She imagined that they could hear her pleas, that their words would come to her, drifting along the soft breeze that was playing with the loose strands of her flame kissed hair.

“We are one and the same, you and I,” she murmured. “Pale of skin, haloed in fire. A face that does little to show the depths of our character. Though you may grimace to the world, I see the kindness in your heart, just as the smile upon my lips fails to reveal the uncertainty within. I ask that you guide me along the path I am meant to take, for you know better than I.”

The air was quiet, but for the faint sounds of leaves caught along the breeze, her own shallow breaths, the thrum of her heart. Sansa strained her ears for a sign of the knowledge she hoped would come, but if the old gods were whispering, it wasn’t to her. Choking back a sob, she closed her eyes in hopes of stemming the flow of tears, and hugged the tree, the bark scraping against her cheek.

The tears never came, her family’s heart tree providing the comfort she needed despite its silence. She sank to her knees, still holding onto the trunk, drawing strength from the contact. Her mind slowly settled, the kinks unknotting in her thoughts and in her body, until she’d finally regained her calm. Perhaps she ought to be marrying in front of the heart tree, rather than in the Sept. While the Seven had done little to soothe her heart, the heart tree’s solid presence had quieted her anxieties, at least in part.

Sansa opened her eyes, calling up an image of Joffrey, seeing them wed in her mind’s eye. Her nerves still fluttered, but less so, and she rose to her feet, still picturing the scene. They would say the vows much as they would in the Sept, but here in front of the heart tree instead.

A septon stood in front of her, his voice steady and sure. “In the sight of the old gods and the new, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words.”

Sansa fumbled in the pocket of her cloak for the ring she’d taken earlier, from her parents, the ring she was meant to give Joffrey. In a flight of whimsy, she reached for a nearby branch, imagining that it was Joffrey’s outstretched hand, that one of the twigs was his waiting finger. Squeezing her eyes shut tight, her heart in her throat, she said the words as she slipped the ring onto the twig, trying to hear Joffrey say them right along with her. “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am his and he is mine, from this day, until the end of my days.”

As she spoke, she heard another voice, soft and gravelly, speaking the same words. “Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger. I am hers and she is mine, from this day, until the end of my days.”

The realization that she’d not been merely imagining the voice only struck her once she’d finished her vows. Startled, Sansa opened her eyes and gasped. She was no longer holding onto a tree branch, but a man’s hands. A ring glinted on his left ring finger, and on her own finger was a second ring, though she hadn’t noticed the slip of cold metal along her skin. She watched, astonished, as both rings transformed before her eyes, turning silver, set with jewels shimmering in the moonlight, sparkling white and ruby red.

Feeling dazed, Sansa slowly trained her gaze upwards, taking in the man before her. Dark stubble flecked with grey peppered his jaw, thickening at the point of his chin and above his lip. His mouth was turned upwards on one side in a half twist of amusement that caught her off guard, though his eyes betrayed nothing of the thoughts within, vibrant greenery entwined with smoke. Though his hair was nearly as black as his cloak, silver temples glittered in the moonlight.

He was older than her, to be certain, but not so much as to warrant the grey, she thought. And though he wasn’t like the knights her heart normally yearned for, there was something about him, an allure she couldn’t quite define. Those eyes gripped her. That smirk bewitched her. His voice had charmed her.

Whoever he was, he had ensnared her heart in a moment’s glance, their spoken vows binding them together for all of eternity. She’d said the words with him, however intentionally so, and now she was his and he was hers, until the end of their days. She should have been terrified, bound to man she’d never met, had absolutely no knowledge of.

And yet she wasn’t.

He was the answer to all of her prayers. Sansa had asked the old gods for assistance, and they had provided. She was free from her obligations to marry Joffrey, having now wed another. A man whose very aura exuded power, even as it inexplicably comforted her.

Sansa stared at him, marveling at the planes of his face, enraptured. She knew she should say something, but her tongue had failed her, so she simply tightened her hands in his and waited, patiently, for him to break the silence.

He was most obliging.

Freeing one hand from her grasp, he raised it to cup her cheek. “What a fine Queen you’ll make, sweetling.”

Sansa leaned into his touch, though her gaze never strayed from his. “Queen?” she whispered.

He nodded, mouth quirking again. “Oh yes,” he murmured. “For I am the Lord of the Underworld. You will rule by my side, and truly, it will be for all of eternity.”

Her breath caught. He certainly had a wicked sense of humor. “Do not tempt me with such sweet lies, my lord. I am already yours.”

His smirk grew. “Though lies may drip from my lips like honey, that shall never be the case with you, my love.” He took a step closer, lips a hair’s breadth from her own. “And my lady wife has no need of such formalities. You may call me Petyr.”

Sansa licked her lips unconsciously, her tongue just barely grazing his mouth as she did so. She was trembling, though not from the cold, which had hardly seemed to touch her since Petyr had appeared. “Petyr,” she breathed, closing her eyes as she anticipated the kiss that was sure to come.

His lips were soft against hers, a light brush, drawing a whimper from her throat. Petyr chuckled at the sound and released her hands, reaching instead for her waist, pulling her closer, before he kissed her again. Sansa clutched at his shoulders instinctively, lips moving tentatively against his, her head spinning, her whole body throbbing.

She hardly knew what to think, of his words, of the way he had suddenly appeared, stealing her heart, and her soul. All she knew for certain was that she wanted this, wanted _him_. The details hardly mattered, so long as he kept kissing her so.

When Petyr pulled away, Sansa stared at him, chest heaving. She felt as though she were drowning, but pleasantly, exquisitely so, and she wanted nothing more than to be pulled back under the surface. His eyes gleamed as they found hers, mouth lifting in another smirk, and he stepped further away, raising an arm to gesture at their surroundings.

Sansa’s eyes widened, and she gasped, caught entirely off guard. No longer were they in the godswood, but in a cavernous hall, carved completely from black onyx, veined with silver and polished to a high sheen. Thousands upon thousands of white crystals hung from the ceiling, draped in a manner reminiscent of cobwebs, their dull lights reflecting up and down the hall so that it seemed that she and Petyr were adrift in an endless sky of stars. At one end, atop steps that rose to a dizzying height, and in front of an enormous mirror that made the room seem to stretch on forever, stood a pair of thrones. They were carved to match the room, so that whoever might choose to sit upon them would appear to be floating in mid air, among the stars. The thrones were identical in all respects save for one, ribbons of red threading through the one on the right.

She really was to be Queen. His Queen. And of the Underworld, no less.

And Petyr, he was her king. Her husband. Her love.

“What do you think, my love? Does it suit your tastes?” His voice was low, but the gravel in its timber still echoed along the otherwise empty hall, rattling her bones, her heart.

Sansa nodded, still awestruck, from the room, from how she’d come to be here, from _him_. “Very much so,” she whispered.

Petyr stepped closer, lowering the hood from her cloak. As he did so, she felt a tingle in the air around her, along her skin. She glanced down in surprise to see that her dress had changed, its fabric turning silky and smooth, it’s color an inky black, rare gemstones of sapphire blue and ruby red smattered along her neckline, down her hips, along the hem and the train, which pooled on the floor like liquid in her wake. An intricately woven shawl was draped about her otherwise bare shoulders, strands black and gossamer fine, mimicking the cobwebs of light up above. Diamonds dotted the shawl in abstract patterns, much like prey caught in a web, though far more precious than something whose only worth to the spider was sustenance.

Her hair tumbled loose about her shoulders and a gentle pressure atop her head told her that she now bore a crown, though she could not see its design. Sansa tore her gaze from her new finery to see Petyr’s attire had changed as well, altering slightly to match the magnificence of her own, a cloak sweeping from his shoulders to the floor, velvety black with silver accents. A crown rested atop his perfectly coiffed hair, wrought from silver, its writhing twists reminding her both of bone and of the limbs of the weirwood tree where they’d met, pillars of onyx in varying heights set about the rim

Petyr offered his hand to her, and together they ascended the steps, a journey that took far less time that she might have expected, considering their height. He led her past the thrones, to stand in front of the mirror, and her breath caught as she took in her reflection. She looked absolutely stunning, tall and poised, and somehow older, wiser, a new aura of power clinging to her with a presence that seemed undoubtable. Her dress hugged every curve, the contrast of the dark fabric with her pale skin heightening the appeal of both, and her hair seemed even more vibrant than usual, a halo of fiery curls that held a light of their own. Perched in their midst was her own crown, a delicate latticework of silver vined crawling ivy, with brilliant blood red flame tipped leaves, each its own masterpiece, the gems glittering from the light refracting around the room.

She’d never felt more beautiful, than in that moment.

Sansa tore her gaze from her own reflection to take in her new husband’s beside her, and was pleased to see how well they complemented one another, and the clear pride shining in his eyes. Wordlessly, he took her hand once more, leading her around to the pair of thrones. He stopped in front of his own, hand still clasped with hers, and with a meaningful look that prompted her as to his intentions, they each took their seats, together.

Suddenly, the room, previously empty but for them, was packed with souls. Sansa fought not to show her surprise as she took in the fathomless sea of people, who, as one, knelt on one knee before them. Heart pounding, her gaze swept over the crowd, taking in the sheer number of people she was meant to rule over.

She’d never felt more powerful, than in that moment.

When Petyr spoke, his voice was soft, tone measured but still eerily commanding. “Rise before your new Queen, the Lady Sansa.”

And they rose, in unison, keeping their heads bowed, eyes lowered, in reverence. Another beat, and they vanished, leaving the newlyweds alone once more. Sansa turned to look at Petyr, smiling shyly as he squeezed her hand.

“And so my new Queen begins her reign,” he murmured, raising their joined hands to place a kiss across her knuckles.

Sansa watched as his lips skimmed her skin with rapt attention, her heart hiccuping. It suddenly occurred to her that this was her wedding night. Though she’d of course been preparing herself for what would come, she’d not been expecting to have to worry until tomorrow evening. Of course, she hadn’t expected a lot of what had happened today. And yet everything thus far had most pleasantly surprised her. Perhaps she had nothing to fear.

“You look frightened, my love. Not regretting your decision, I hope?” Petyr asked, though he looked more amused than worried.

She shook her head. “I did not entirely wish to marry Joffrey. Something felt amiss, the more I came to know him.”

His lips curled. “I don’t doubt that. There is much evil, in the world above. Your intended, however, seemed to attract it in excess. You would have suffered greatly, in his hands.”

Sansa bowed her head, shuddering to think of what Petyr might have meant. Beside her, Petyr shifted and reached over to cup her cheek, lifting her gaze to meet his. “Do not think on it, sweetling. You’ve escaped that particular fate.”

“And why did you spare me?” she asked, voice trembling.

His hand moved from her cheek to card through her hair. “You chose me, as much as I chose you, tonight. I heard your prayers, and I saw your fate, should I not answer them, as well as every moment you’ve lived from birth, and I knew you would be my Queen. The path was written for you already, we had only need follow it.”

She felt the truth in his words, deep in her bones, and this knowledge made her heart soar. Reaching up, she caught the hand still toying with her curls in her own, placing a kiss on his palm. “I am very fortunate, it seems. Few marry for love, in this day and age. And yet, though I met my husband only this very night, I see the truth in my heart.”

Petyr’s eyes darkened, in a manner more befitting of lust than danger, and Sansa bravely pressed her lips to his palm once more. Never breaking eye contact, he rose to his feet, pulling her up with him. Her limbs felt shaky as he guided her back to the mirror, then stepped through the glass as if it were water, his hand clasped in hers ensuring that she followed close behind.

Slightly disoriented, she took in the room around her, which, judging from the enormous bed dominating the space, was a bedroom. Like the room they’d left behind, its decor was dominated in black and silver, deep red rose petals drifting from the ceiling in a gentle rain, coating every surface with their velvet touch. The petals caught in the folds of her shawl, in his cloak, in her long, flowing hair, delicately adorning their already captivating magnificence. Behind her was the same mirror she’d just traveled through, and Sansa reached out to touch the glass, flinching slightly as her fingers passed through it.

He chuckled. “There are stranger things than that yet to come, Sansa. The Underworld is entirely unlike the world above. And as the King and Queen, we can do as we please, to bend reality to our whims.”

She turned to face him again, pondering this new revelation. “You’ll teach me?”

“Oh yes. Soon, you’ll no doubt be my equal, as such,” Petyr replied. “But time enough for that later, don’t you think?”

Before Sansa could begin to imagine what it might mean to be his equal, and as Queen of the Underworld no less, his mouth was on hers, and all thoughts contrary to the need stirring in her veins were blissfully quiet. He’d stolen her heart, and likely her soul as well, and now he was intent to steal her body. And, like the others, she’d willingly give it. He could have everything she had to offer, if only she received the same in return.

**Author's Note:**

> I see this as an AU, set in Westeros, where Robert never became king (so Joffrey isn't royalty), and Petyr died that day during the duel, at Riverrun, only to become Lord of the Underworld. 
> 
> Also, they might not have rings in Westeros, but in this AU they do :P
> 
> Hopefully you liked it! I'm really happy with how this story turned out :D


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